Grief Garden: A Photo Essay

Title: Grief Garden, a photo essay

Earlier this summer, I spent time with Bradley in his garden, remembering his mom, the wonderful Debbie Mae Glenda Gionet. Together, with Lisa Glover Floral Design we created a photo essay exploring the connection between grief & gardening, cultivation, memory, love and loss. Today we are sharing this photo essay on the anniversary of Debbie's passing.

*TW: grief, cancer.
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Grief Garden: "It Won't Rain Always" - Photo Essay

Mom loved Dahlias for about as long as I can remember. Growing up in Surrey, we had a huge bush of burgundy dinner plate dahlias with white tips.  At our acreage, they didn't perform well, but she tried. However, moving to the suburbs was a free for all because anything will grow here. Being limited on space there was a running joke that when I came home with a rose bush, Mom would say "let's go, I'm off to get another dahlia!" -- and she was quite serious. Last year we planted 48 dahlias, one for every year Mom and Dad were married.

This year I planted 68. One for every year she lived.

My name is Bradley Gionet. "Who you are" is an interesting question when it sometimes feels like our identity is so many different things and quite circumstantial on how we sum it up. Of all the things "I am" it feels like Son is the highest honour.

Our family has always had a garden and when we moved to this TINY lot on Promontory, we really wanted to make it something that felt like "home" even though space was no longer so generous for us. We brought with us several truck loads of perennials from our old acreage when we moved and as the decade went on added a lot of other things, often planted in memorial for the many people we have lost. Like everything, the garden evolves. A widening here, an addition there, a new angle, replacing and dividing. There is something about a garden that teaches us so much about life. Messy. Out of control sometimes. It is also quite cyclical. The circle of life in a way. Being in a space with plant life and landscaping, flowers remind me that all things come and go, whether we are ready for them to leave or not. We can rot away into the dirt or take what is left behind to try, best as we can, to grow something beautiful from what remains. 

Mom was the solid, steadfast foundation that everyone else in our immediate and extended family relied upon. My aunt called her "The North Star". Always there. We never imagined a world where the rest of us would be navigating daily life alone, but at 68 my mom passed from colon cancer and now here we are. My mother was always a confident and strong woman but watching her fight cancer for 11 months before her death showed all of us just how strong she really was. Mom was so determined she was going to beat this-- she was in active dying for nearly a week, where in most cases the final stages last only a few hours.

She was creative, kind, empathetic, and supportive. She could also be moody, quite strict, and someone who struggled giving up control. I don't remember a time when travelling anywhere when Mom wouldn't be quite demanding that I call her when I got there.

Mom was a very hard worker and had the misfortune of believing that others should work as hard as her. She set the bar high. A giving person, but also someone who detested laziness. She helped just about everyone, but disappointment would come if they didn't then help themselves and others once their situation improved.

When I think of my best qualities, most I got from my Mother. When I think of my worst qualities, well, I think she gave me those, too. I am pretty sure she would agree.

I expected grief. That anticipation came the day of Mom's diagnosis. I knew the sense of loss would be immense, but what I didn't understand is just how strong that grief would hit over, and over, and over again. Being in the room with Mom as she took her last breath was something I was not prepared for. I thought I had another 20 years! When I close my eyes I see how cancer destroyed her body, I see her face that moment she was declared dead. This was a face I knew so well, now just a shell of the person I knew the most. Unrecognizable, disfigured, frightening. They don't warn you how disturbing that moment of death can be, yet somehow, it is also the most spiritual and beautiful thing one has ever witnessed.

Grief these past 10 months has affected me physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I was never one to say "why me?" and neither was Mom, but I often find myself saying "what more can I take?" Now, becoming my Dad's full time care-giver, assuming all the responsibilities for a home, and somehow trying to create a sense of normal and routine in a world that to us is anything but has been exhausting. Grief and loss at some point in our lives finds us all. Grief doesn't end a few days after a funeral. Grief of a close person comes in waves, like a rough Pacific storm. It is messy, unwelcome, -- a guest constantly returning. I don't believe we get past grief or loss, but we somehow manage to work through it. For me, it isn't just about existing alongside grief, but rather growing from it. With it. It isn't leaving, and I don't have a choice in that matter. I remember Mom through the routines of life: the garden, a familiar old recipe, a chipped ceramic decoration, or a piece of crochet left incomplete. It has been the most insignificant life moments that often have surprised me with a rush of memories and feeling. A few months back, at the Dollarama, I grabbed a chocolate bar, and without thinking grabbed Mom's favorite, too. Who knew a Crunchie bar could cause a melt down at the dollar store?

When I go into the garden and I am working away, it brings a sense of familiarity and routine in a time of my life where everything else has been completely torn away and upset. It's a place where I think of Mom at a different time -- when she wasn't sick. This year, I have invested significantly in expanding with new plants in new beds, with a new fence, and much of this has been a tribute to her. As messy and unpredictable as a garden can be, it somehow has given me back some sense of control. While grief was not invited, and sadness not something I had hoped for, just being in that space and letting the emotions come and go has been helpful for me. Oftentimes I will have music streaming that reminds me of Mom and my Grandparents. It's a place where I let the tears fall, and I am not too worried about looking like I've just been through hell and back, because the truth is, that's exactly what it feels like I have done.

Last May, on a day Mom was feeling "OK" after chemo, I took a photo of her in front of a large white clematis. We had never intended it would be used for her funeral brochure but that is exactly what happened. She looked tired, thin, but somehow peaceful. A few days after Mom died, I ventured out into the real world and found and brought home an angel sculpture. The angel sat on Mom's hutch throughout the winter and when Spring came, I moved her outside in front of the clematis, in the spot where she once posed for that photo. I surrounded the angel with Mom's Zinnias and Dahlias, and she seems at peace in the garden, just how I wish to imagine Mom is.

Floral headpiece: Lisa Glover Floral Design

"It Won't Rain Always". Mom's anthem during her illness. I had a plaque made in the garden to honour Mom with those words, however, sometimes it feels like it will always rain. But whether we know it or not at the time, the sun will always shine again. For now, standing in the rain is what my life looks like, day in, and day out -- but with rain, comes flowers. 

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Thank you so much to Bradley for sharing his story and the memory of his beautiful mom, Debbie Mae Glenda Gionet. Thank you so much to Lisa Glover Floral Design for the headpiece and floral arrangement shown in Bradley's hands. If you or someone you know could use support with grief you're not alone - resources are available through Chilliwack Hospice Society: https://www.chilliwackhospice.org

Photos by Sarah Sovereign, narrative photographer. 

See the photo essay in full below.

The Creative Counsellor & the last year | Chilliwack Photographer

Things have been so quiet over in this corner of the internet - I’ve still been photographing things here and there but also really treasuring a rest and refresh around my art practice and how I express myself with images. It’s been so needed - the last few years have been challenging for many reasons and the way that 2024 has unfolded has been SO healing and so different in much needed ways. In February, Jamie and I moved to the sweetest little converted barn house downtown with our cats - it has a lovely deck space where I can lay out and read books, the happiest hydrangea, and a front porch I can’t wait to fill with pumpkins in the fall.

I also am now a registered clinical counsellor with a private practice called The Creative Counsellor - focusing around neurodivergence/ADHD in adults/women (including late diagnoses), creatives navigating their practice, self worth and self esteem, as well as grief therapy. You can follow me on Instagram here! I offer virtual counselling across B.C. and in person sessions right now at a cozy rented space at Thrive Collective on Sundays, as well as select weekdays downtown.

In July my best friend came to visit - we laid around in fields, wandered downtown, watched movies we loved as kids (looking at you He-Man Masters of the Universe) and really just hung out. Last time she came through we did SO MUCH (two day trips - we did Kelowna and back and Victoria and back, both in one day and I have no idea who that version of me was and where she got the energy). This visit was a lot more low key, I think we both really just needed some time together singing songs driving down Camp River Rd and late night chats in my backyard under the moon. I will always be so grateful for friends that are soul sisters - and so grateful for getting to see so much of my family this year, too.

We also had a beautiful internment for my dad, placing his ashes in one of his favourite spots to go walking. We all gathered together, singing I’ll Fly Away out into the morning while birds flew overhead.

It’s been a beautifully slow summer - and in that, I’ve taken a break since June from my photography business and really spent some time exploring my art practice. I’ve still been shooting and creating - my editing is taking forever - but I’ve found breath in the rest and my heart is full of so many new ideas. I have loved photographing all of you for the last 10 years and while I’m not sure how long this break will be, you’ll continue to see what I’m creating here and on my Instagram.

I hope these last months have been kind to you all, too. More to come.

Taken by my pal Jen Ault

Brittany had the idea of making wine for my dad and I designed these labels from a little photo shoot we had a few years ago at Island 22. Such a happy memory for me. We had the internment in the morning, followed by a very small family gathering celebrating his life.

These beautiful roses grow wild across the street.

Eclipse Goddess | Chilliwack Creative Photographer

What feels like ages ago I did this beautiful shoot at Cultus with Siobhan D’Souza from Shiverz Designs, Audra and makeup artist Kayla Marie. This was just before the flooding started - we shot this on the day the rain began and editing went to the wayside as everything unfolded over that tough time for so many - I love going back through shoots like these and trying new things with them, so here are fresh edits! This shoot was such a bright spot in that time - it was also right around the time of the eclipse, so we named this series, “Eclipse Goddess”.

This is my favourite kind of weather to shoot at the lake in (minus the torrential rains) because everything is so rich and moody looking

Makeup by Kayla Marie and Shiverz Designs, expert leaf throwers

Wanders in northwestern Ontario... | Chilliwack Photographer

Friends, I left the province for the first time in 6 years a couple weeks ago and it was so needed. There’s something about dipping your feet in Lake Superior, seeing fireflies under midnight skies, and sticking buttercups under your chin that just makes you feel like coming home to yourself.

I did so much - I’d forgotten the glow of country stars, how these little copper moths line the gravel roadways of Murillo and Conmee and spring up around you with every step, how Robin’s Donuts makes chocolate and coconut Robin’s eggs and they’re delicious.

And out in the family orchard, we spread some of my dad’s ashes under a red atlas apple tree. He would have loved that so much.

I took his luggage along with me, too, with a luggage tag proudly saying he’d visited Hawaii and his name and address spelled out in block capitals. I miss his writing. I miss his words and wisdom. Grief is something you always carry - even if it gets less heavier, sometimes, over time. I felt my dad with me every step of the way - but that’s like here, too. I don’t think those we love are ever far.

It was such a healing trip, and there is so much I’m healing and have been for so long. The last 5 years have passed like a blur and they’ve carried so much heaviness, so much loss, both for my family and for Jamie’s. We’ve lost 4 family members in 2 years, cancer, the pandemic, health. I felt something heal in me when I put my feet into the lake, when I travelled the old pathways me and my best friend Melissa struck out on 20 years ago. When I lay on the rocks and the gravel and felt so supported by the earth. What a beautiful thing to experience nature in these ways. I am so grateful I was able to do this.

The rest of the summer is stretching out before me and I have so many plans - mostly on healing & new projects. Sometimes that intersects. Often it does, because photographing & sharing things in these spaces is therapeutic for me, too.

I’m still taking submissions for Sourcing Joy and Grief Houses, you are so welcome to participate and there’s no fee to do it - these will be photo essays as a heart project of mine.

The pathway I’ve walked on for 20+ years, Lowkey taking a cozy snooze, feeding chickens, a butterfly with a broken wing, “Pride Lives Here” on my cousin’s house, a field of purple clover

The spot where we laid my dad’s ashes, and my cousin Melissa wandering her garden during golden hour, and Lilia and Lowkey in the field at midnight under a full moon

The Murphy House, my old dream house, as seen from the laneway, a copper moth resting on a wild daisy, my cousin planting marigolds at our grandparents’ grave, my goddaughter holding a small bouquet of wildflowers, making prints in the sun with Frankie and yard blossoms.